


This Place Is a Shelter

by charcoalcas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Christmas, Depression, Everyone is Queer, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Pining, Recovery, Referenced Minor Character Death, Referenced Past Suicidal Thoughts, Smoking, hannah and cas are twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 13:20:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2852234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charcoalcas/pseuds/charcoalcas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is miserable and Christmas is terrible but maybe both of those things can change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Place Is a Shelter

As a crowd singing Jingle Bells pushes past Castiel for the sixth time that night, he wonders idly if maybe he should just quit and leave the country.

Anna has no sympathy for him. If he doesn't like Christmas, why would he interview for a holiday job? Maybe Castiel just hates himself that much.

To be fair, he didn't realize just how _jolly_ the job would be. The Talbot Botanical Gardens needed a botanist to help with their tropical plant conservatory during the holiday rush. Castiel hadn't bothered to research the position further. He was a botanist and orchids were his expertise.

But Talbot’s transformed itself every December to become a green winter wonderland for paying visitors. Across the expansive property, artists design beautiful Christmas light displays and integrate them into the gardens. Horse drawn carriages run every fifteen minutes and jingle all the way. Inside the main pavilion, Santa waits with hot cocoa and warm cookies and craft tables. Unbeknownst to Castiel at the time, the conservatory is not exempt from Christmas cheer, and so here he is, glaring at oblivious holiday junkies as he tries to string red bulbs around his Columnea Goldfish.

The conservatory is a high traffic stop because it’s the only warm place on the property other than the main building. Conveniently, a carriage stop has been stationed just outside, so every fifteen minutes Castiel has to listen to the same carols and dodge the same crowds and deliver the same threats if anyone decides to veer off the nice wooden path to pluck at his orchids.

Charlie, the head botanist here, thinks it's hilarious. She's laughing now, holding Castiel's ladder still while he mutters to himself and stretches to fling some lights over the top of the rock wall in the east wing of the conservatory. 

Charlie makes this job bearable. Hannah, too. 

It had been difficult, at first, having to move back in with his twin sister. But after what had happened, his therapist said it would be better if he didn't live alone for a while. Hannah had welcomed him into her apartment and treated him well, had gotten him the interview here, even, after his first month in her apartment had passed by with no personal progress to speak of.

"It's just for the month," she had said. "And you'll enjoy the gardens."

Hannah leads birdwatching groups at Talbot’s every other Saturday and volunteers to assistant teach craft classes for elementary schoolers every Wednesday. 

Pathetically, Castiel had protested at first. A job would mean less time to lie under his blankets and feel angry and sad. But Hannah had stuffed him into a sweater and tried to comb his hair and ferried him off to the interview and, because the universe hates him, he hadn't blown it.

But at least he gets to spend his long shifts with Charlie. The job probably wouldn't be that bad if it wasn't Christmastime. Working with orchids requires dedication, focus, and precision. Steady hands and a careful eye. There’s no room or time for his emotional clutter in the conservatory – this place is a shelter, a sanctuary for him as well as the orchids. He enjoys watching over the many flowers kept here and the spontaneity of the job, delighted by the unpredictable whimsy of nature, and it’s nice to get to dig his hands in the dirt. The soil is real and solid and honest and he is still amazed by the small miracles happening all around him, tiny life bursting from the ground and turning toward the sun. 

There are some days when his mother’s voice is ringing loud in his ears that he looks around in rapture at the sprawling green and pure _wonder_ around him and bemusedly thinks her God is more present here than He ever was in any church.

As a distant jingling cuts through the loud din of noise in the conservatory, Castiel remembers the other part of this job he enjoys. Charlie sends him a knowing look and pointedly turns to fiddle with her ferns. Flushing, Castiel avoids her gaze and crawls down the ladder with his tail between his legs, walking briskly - but casually, _casually_ \- out of the dewy warmth of his home for the month and into the biting and unforgiving cold outside.

Sure enough, there he is. _Dean._ A cluster of children are gathered around his two horses, carefully patting them and giggling when Dean talks from his seat above them, his words indiscernible from this distance despite his deep voice. The carriage Dean drives has the top down tonight but patchy quilts are strewn along the seats, some spilling over the edge onto the wagon’s bright red painted wood. ”Chevrolet” is written on the side in gilded script, a source of pride and amusement for Dean. Most of the other carriages have names like “Noel” or “Evergreen.” 

Castiel hovers nervously behind a rose bush, mindlessly preening the leaves while keeping an eye on Dean, waiting for the crowd to disperse. Dean gets a fifteen-minute break at eight-thirty every night and for the past three weeks he has spent almost all of them in the conservatory. Understandable, as it’s warm and much closer than the main pavilion - plus, he’s friends with Charlie.

It’s hell, trying to work with Dean being handsome and charming all over the place. Christ, he’s handsome, skin golden and freckled like ancient divinity wrapped up in leather and faded denim, body broad and muscled though his stomach is soft, a discovery made from secret glimpses that leave Castiel lying awake at night. He’s funny, too, charming and silly without arrogance or cruelty. And he’s smart, so smart, though he seems wary of acknowledging it. To make matters worse, Castiel recently found out Dean LARPs with Charlie sometimes – gets in _costume_ and wields a _sword_ and rides a _horse_ and, Jesus, he probably _strategizes_ \-- 

_Pining,_ Castiel thinks. _This is pining._

Down the cobblestone path, Dean is out of his seat, holding a small girl up in his arms so she can reach to feed one of the horses a carrot. The rest of the children are gathered around him, tugging on his coat and giggling. Dean’s not irritated, though. He never is. He stoops down low to hear the kids babble then throws his head back and laughs, a rich, hearty sound that stokes warmth in Castiel’s chest like hot coals. From inside his coat, Dean pulls candy canes, but he makes all the kids repeat after him that he is the best carriage driver in the gardens before they’re allowed to have any, threatening any potential defectors with coal in their stockings via the resident Santa.

 _Ridiculous._ Castiel glares down at the roses. _Infuriating._

By the time Dean makes his way over, Castiel has successfully distracted himself and is almost completely submerged in the rose bushes. 

“Busy night?” 

With what he hopes is grace, Castiel extracts himself from the bush, smiling gently when he sees Dean standing before him, cheeks pink from the cold and breath puffing out white.

“I just figured it must be bad in there to get you out in the cold,” Dean adds, then plucks a small crumpled rose bud from Castiel’s hair and holds it out to him, grinning boyishly.

“Hilarious,” Castiel says, willing his hands not to tremble when he takes it from Dean. “And yes, it's been busy. Though I suppose you haven't fared any better?”

Dean shrugs and starts walking along the small stone path to the conservatory’s entrance. “I can do the song and dance for a steady paycheck.”

“Hmm,” Castiel muses. “If I have to hear ‘Deck the Halls’ one more time, I might deck a few people myself.”

A blast of hot air hits them when Castiel opens the glass doors.

“I keep forgetting you hate Christmas,” Dean says, dodging a rowdy group of kids gathered around a small fountain.

“I don’t _hate_ Christmas,” Castiel admonishes. “I just…”

“Hate Christmas?”

“Maybe I do. I’ve never had reason to enjoy it.”

“Me neither,” Dean settles down on one of the two benches Castiel refuses to think of as theirs, smiling out at the kids excitedly whispering and pointing at the small floating “fairy village” Charlie set up in the large pool of water behind the conservatory’s two story falling fountain. “But I still try to.”

“You enjoy making people happy,” Castiel observes, sitting next to him.

Dean lifts an eyebrow and peers over at him. “Is that bad?”

“No,” Castiel chuckles and leans forward with his elbows on his knees, chin resting on his folded hands. “But it seems tiring.”

“Well, no wonder you hate Christmas,” Dean scoffs. “It’s all about making people happy.”

“And here I was thinking it was just about corporations making money.”

“Alright, calm down Scrooge. You’ll startle the flock.”

Castiel doesn’t know what else to say. He doesn’t think it would be appropriate to truly explain himself – that after a childhood spent being traumatized into blind devotion only to realize it was all bullshit in college and losing most of his family over it, he’s not too keen on celebrating the epitome of everything he’s come to resent. Not with as many bad memories of the season as he has.

Last year he had spent Christmas crying in an empty bathtub with a bottle of gin and an eighth of weed. 

Dean seems to have his own reservations about Christmas, but instead of withdrawing inward like Castiel, he throws himself into it. According to Dean, every year can be the best Christmas ever if you only have shitty Christmases to compare them to, so every year he drives the jingle bell carriages and leads sing alongs and sloshes eggnog down his front at the staff party (and according to Charlie, kills it at karaoke). 

It had annoyed Castiel until he had seen Dean with the kids. The bravado he turned on for the adults simmered down to quiet charm. He always crouched to be on their level, watched them carefully and listened sincerely. He was gentle with them and made sure each one walked away buoyant with Christmas cheer. It was hard for Cas to hate the holiday when he saw how happy it made the kids, even if they walked right into the conservatory after and tried to trample his plants and tug on his flowers. And the kids make Dean happy in return; he always looks a little less tired around them, bright like a child himself. 

Sometimes Dean is so terribly sweet with the roaming hoards of children that Castiel thinks maybe Christmas isn’t _totally_ fucking awful. Maybe life isn’t, either. It’s abhorrent, really, how severe a crisis Castiel is spiraling into because of this man who has chosen Castiel for his break company. Dean claims it’s to harass Castiel into making his Grinch heart grow three sizes by Christmas – his goal is to have Castiel sing at least one carol – but it’s still puzzling. Castiel knows he has all the appeal of dry rot and yet Dean has still shown up in the conservatory at 8:30 almost every night since the start of the month, trailing behind Cas like a puppy while he chatters about television Castiel has never seen and music he’s never heard of and books he hasn’t read.

One time he even brought Castiel coffee.

A guitar riff wails high and tinny from Dean’s coat and he sighs and stands up. “Back to the grind,” he says, shuffling awkwardly in front of Cas and looking down at their feet. “Hey, uh…”

Castiel’s chest burns and he realizes he’s been holding his breath.

“Ah, never mind.” Dean waves a hand dismissively and sighs. “Have a good night, Cas.”

It’s only a splash and screech from the fairy pool that stops Cas from walking after him.

✽✽✽

“You got any fun Christmas plans?” Dean asks the next night, reaching inside his coat to unwrap a granola bar. They’re standing outside, huddled together in the cold, Dean clutching onto his paper cup of hot coffee like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

“No,” Cas says, holding out his hand. Dean grins and passes him his coffee to sip. Their fingers brush when Castiel hands it back and he immediately cements it into his memory. “You?”

“Nah,” Dean says, and Castiel turns to him, surprised. “Don’t look at me like that. I might order Chinese.”

“It’s just not what I expected.”

“Coming from you, smokestack. I didn’t even know you smoked.”

Castiel scowls and exhales smoke from his nose. It stings and burns and feels good and tight in his lungs when he stuffs the cigarette in his mouth again. “I don’t.”

Dean laughs thickly around his mouthful of granola, scuffs the tip of a boot in the dirt. “I shouldn’t talk, I guess.” He aims his granola wrapper at the trashcan across from them. It bounces on the rim but lands on an empty candy-striped popcorn bag. “Christmas is a special occasion though, I guess. It brings out the best of us.”

“What makes it special?”

“My dad and Johnnie Walker wrapped his car around a tree a few Christmases ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas says, and he is. He feels bratty for whining about Christmas all this time now and offers what’s left of his cigarette. Dean takes it.

“Don’t be,” Dean rubs his temple, then takes a quick drag of the cigarette before dropping it onto the ground and stubbing it out with his boot. “He was a bastard.”

“My dad left when I was a baby,” Castiel blurts. He regrets it immediately, worried he sounds self-centered instead of in solidarity.

But Dean smiles crookedly and watches Cas for a minute, his eyes softening before his gaze drops to the ground. Over the rush of blood in his ears, Castiel can hear the far away laughter and screams of children in the junior garden. 

“To shitty fathers,” Dean finally says, raising his coffee in toast. Castiel chuckles lowly, then takes the cup and steals another sip.

“Coffee’s only three bucks if you’re an employee, you know,” Dean gripes, but he’s smiling soft and shy, shrugging his jacket further up his broad shoulders and looking out over the lights, their colors reflecting in his glassy eyes. He tosses his now empty coffee cup at the trashcan and misses, sighs and leans his head back against the wall. “Sorry you got screwed over in the dad department too, Cas.”

Castiel grunts and shrugs a shoulder. What else is there to say? They watch each other for a minute, conversing in a private language they are both still writing until Castiel looks away, brow furrowed as he squints out into the twinkling lights.

“Can I tell you something if you promise not to tell another soul?”

Dean turns his head where it rests on the wall to watch Cas, gaze pensive and careful.

“When I was younger, I told myself he was a spy.” 

A corner of Dean’s mouth twitches, more of a wince than a smile.

“It was pathetic. I worshipped him.” Castiel sighs, clouds of white curling from his mouth into the cold air. “He probably doesn’t even remember my name. But it made me feel better about him being gone. I always hoped he would come back, after just one more mission. Sometimes I still do.”

It’s relieving to finally say all of this out loud. He’s not sure why he’s even sharing, only that it feels right. He trusts Dean. The quiet that follows is comfortable.

“My dad used to dump my brother and me in motels and go off doing who knows what after my mom died,” Dean says after a while. “When I was ten he left me with a rifle, three cans of spaghettios, and my little brother for four days. Sammy got sick and I didn’t know what to do. He almost died on my watch.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, reaching a hand out to rest on Dean’s shoulder, a cocktail of emotions long dormant swirling violently together at the self-hatred heavy on Dean’s tongue. “You were not at fault. Your father was.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Dean coughs and straightens up, shoulder slipping out of Cas’ palm. “Dad sure was pissed when he got back though.”

“Did he hurt you?” The question shakes with the force of his anger. He is wrathful at the very idea.

“Not that time.” Dean is staring out in the darkness, watching memories that stoop his shoulders and lower his eyes, make him try to be small even now. Despite this, he glances over at Cas and grins, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “We’re a festive pair, huh?”

“Merry Christmas,” Castiel mutters darkly, tugging his pea coat tighter around him.

Dean laughs and they head back into the warmth of the conservatory, shoulders bumping as they walk.

✽✽✽

It’s only when Castiel finds himself scribbling verses about Dean’s hands in the cramped margins of a fertilizer receipt that he realizes how far gone he is. It’s a strange feeling, a new one, and he stomps all the way to his shitty car that night and slams the door and puts on talk radio.

There is no better feeling when in a bad mood than spreading misery, but Castiel restrains himself and tells Hannah about it instead. His therapist says he needs to start sharing his feelings, bad and good. 

“Dean _Winchester?_ ” Hannah asks, mouth agape. They’re curled up under an electric blanket in front of a horrible ABC movie, a shared pint of Ben and Jerry’s resting between them. “The guy who teaches pottery classes at Talbot’s?”

Castiel frowns at the television. Why are there so many movies about people being handcuffed together? “No, he drives the carriages.”

“Well, for Christmas. He teaches preschool pottery on Thursdays the rest of the year! Other classes too, but that’s where I know him from. Sometimes my birding group brings back leaves for clay prints. They’re the ones who made all the ornaments in the pavilion trees.”

Castiel closes his eyes and sags further into the blanket. “Why would you tell me that?”

Hannah laughs and gets up to make popcorn, twisting her hair into a bun. “He’s nice. And he’s friends with Charlie, isn’t he?”

The microwave hums over the television and Castiel peeks over the edge of the couch. Hannah’s face is carefully blank. 

“You like Charlie,” Castiel accuses.

Hannah makes a face and turns back to the microwave.

“You do!” Castiel sits up and smiles wide. It’s gummy and crinkly and rare. 

They spend the rest of the night teasing each other and watching bad Christmas movies. Castiel falls asleep in suspiciously good spirits, the near omnipresent heaviness in his chest lighter than it’s been in years.

✽✽✽

Dean is throwing away a bag of horse shit when Castiel says hello.

“Jesus,” Dean snaps, slamming the lid of the dumpster closed. He pulls a travel size bottle of Purell from his coat pocket and squeezes a generous amount onto his palms as he appraises Cas. “What brings you to this side of paradise?”

Castiel holds up his large paper cup. “They started serving coffee from that place down the road this morning.”

“Yeah?” Dean laughs and starts walking back towards the pavilion. “How many have you had already, Agent Cooper?”

“Not enough,” Cas says dryly, surveying the main room of the pavilion through the glass doors as they walk by. It’s only four o’clock but it’s already full, stuffy adults holding coffees and admiring the artwork while children clamber over the many seats and tables scattered around the high-ceilinged, circular room, some gathering around the self-playing baby grand and gasping at the dancing keys. They probably think it’s magic.

“Christ, tomorrow’s Christmas Eve and I still haven’t won you over,” Dean mutters, hopping neatly over a small hedge. At Castiel’s curious look, he stammers, “With Christmas cheer, I mean. I said I’d have you singing carols by Christmas and here you are scowling at laughing children.”

“I like kids,” Castiel says, his tone defensive enough to make Dean raise an eyebrow. 

Castiel _does_ like kids, loves them, actually. But you have to be stern when thousands of dollars worth of rare flora are made your responsibility and the signs clearly say “no touching.” Not that kids are the real problem – they can be clumsy, but it’s the grown-ups you have to look out for.

And though Castiel is wary of admitting it, depression makes it hard to deal with kids. It’s tiring enough to scrounge up the energy to be the stick in the mud adults perceive him to be. It’s even harder to find it in himself to be who kids see.

“Alright, so you like kids and plants.” Dean sounds amused.

“You should see me at parties.”

“But you don’t like Christmas? Those are two major components of the holiday. The only thing left is candy and nobody hates candy.”

Castiel bites his tongue.

They’re at Dean’s carriage now. A teenage volunteer for the gardens looks up from her phone as they approach. Dean introduces her as Krissy and explains that he got her out of volunteering with Santa because she’s badass and spoils the horses. 

“Krissy, this is Cas,” Dean nods over at Cas as he gets to work brushing one of the horses – the glittery name on the harness says Short Round. “He’s a temp over at the sanctuary.”

Krissy tucks her phone in her back pocket and crosses her arms, looking Cas up and down and grinning at him in a way that makes him feel transparent. 

“ _You’re_ Cas?” she says, sounding positively delighted. “You’re ‘The Commander’?”

“The Commander?” Castiel repeats, perplexed. He and Krissy both turn to Dean, who’s standing there like a deer in the headlights, mouth opening and closing until it finally snaps shut and he points an accusing finger at Krissy, who laughs.

“One more peep outta you and you’re gonna be in elf ears tomorrow,” Dean growls. It’s supposed to be threatening but all Krissy does is roll her eyes and stand on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek before flouncing off to the pavilion, tossing a look over her shoulder at Castiel that he can’t decipher.

Cas stares after her, mind pinwheeling as he tries to understand what has just transpired. He turns slowly to Dean, who is back to brushing Short Round, his shoulders hunched and face hidden.

“Dean?”

“You know, you’re all authoritative or whatever,” Dean grunts, the tips of his ears pink.

“Are you calling me bossy?”

“Maybe,” Dean deflates a little and turns back to smile at him. “You can be a hard ass with those orchids.”

Castiel chuckles and dips his chin. _Commander._

It’s cold outside, the wind biting and the sky cloudy and gray and heavy with what Castiel hopes isn’t snow, so Dean offers to drive him back to the conservatory in the carriage. Both of their shifts start soon and Castiel already feels tired. He had cried in bed this morning until he had almost been late to work. Hannah had to drive him.

She hadn’t spoken the entire drive over but hugged him tightly before he got out.

Castiel had forgotten how sad he was supposed to be feeling when he saw Dean quietly singing Mariah Carey by the dumpsters. His limbs still feel heavy with exhaustion but he’s smiling, huddled in the front of the jingle bell carriage next to Dean, who’s grinning and singing Christmas songs horribly off-key, nudging Cas and winking and waggling his eyebrows to try to cajole him into joining. Cas bites the inside of his cheek and looks away, feeling strangely bashful and okay.

It’s warm, next to Dean. 

When they finally arrive, neither of them move. It’s quiet, the gardens hanging in wait – the morning crowd has long cleared out but the evening rush has yet to arrive.

“Couldn’t even get you to sing Rudolph,” Dean murmurs, rubbing the corner of his mouth as his gaze wanders slowly down Castiel before darting back up to his eyes. They’re sitting close, wedged together – not an inch of space between them. It’s a small front seat. 

Castiel tries to breathe as quietly as possible because he knows it’s coming out in shallow puffs and it’s embarrassing – but Dean’s eyes are very green and framed by the most beautiful dark curls of eyelashes Castiel has ever seen – though he doesn’t think he’s ever cared about eyelashes before. He hasn’t cared about anything in a long time.

“Dean,” Castiel says, voice pitched low. The blue scarf Hannah had hastily wrapped around him is too thin and itchy around his neck, tucked messily into his pea coat. He fiddles with it before sighing and looking over at the conservatory. “Why do you care if I like Christmas?”

Castiel doesn’t expect an answer, but after Dean watches him for a minute, he gives him one.

“Because I used to hate it too.” Dean shifts, his knee bumping against Cas’. “I hated a lot. Christmas meant trying to pretend like my family was normal and happy, and we just weren’t. Hell, my brother went across the country just to get away from me, and I don’t blame him. After my dad died, I realized I needed to just…” He gestures with a hand as he searches for words, then scratches at the back of his neck and glances over at Cas in a way that’s almost shy. “To start over, I guess.”

Castiel nods and sips at his coffee. This is the longest he’s ever heard Dean talk about himself.

“Charlie helped a lot,” Dean continues, smiling when he says her name. “I was in pretty bad shape back then. She would drag my sorry ass to AA meetings and got me set up in my own place and working here. I was just a groundskeeper back then but now I teach classes and work weekends at the library on Elm.” 

He shrugs and shakes his head but it’s not self-deprecating. He seems happy when he looks over at Cas, maybe even proud. “It’s not much, but it’s better than anything I had before. And now Christmas is about all that, about my new family and that I made it through another year. And Charlie said you were having a hard time and then I met you and I just wanted to give that to you, I don’t know. It’s stupid, but…”

Dean exhales, and it’s shaky and so vulnerable that Cas wants to kiss it from his mouth, wants so badly to hold him and steal his pain away, tell him he’s safe and beautiful and _human_ until he hears it.

Instead, he says, “You’re a good man, Dean.” He hopes his sincerity is received.

Dean laughs and pats Cas’ shoulder, then hops out of the carriage. “You’re not too bad yourself, Cas.”

✽✽✽

Anna calls that night and Castiel tells her that he doesn’t know what to do. It’s scary, to feel again. To be happy when you are so used to it being stolen away.

“I can’t make your choices for you, Castiel,” Anna says, her voice gentle over the crinkle of wrapping paper and quiet chatter of a television. “I just want you to be happy.”

Castiel swallows and squeezes his eyes shut. 

“It’s okay, you know,” she says after a while. “To be happy. You deserve that.”

“I love you,” Castiel chokes out. “I wish you were here.”

“I’ll be there for New Year’s,” Anna says, the background noise on her end quieting down. “All of us will. Hester and Rachel are looking forward to it.”

Cas laughs and rests his forehead on his knees, fondness swelling in his chest when he thinks of his two young nieces. “I am too.”

“I love you,” Anna says. “Take care of yourself. Have some cake.”

Castiel hangs up and does just that.

✽✽✽

The next morning, Castiel knocks quietly on his boss’ door, the gleaming “BELA TALBOT” door plaque reflecting his anxious face. He schools it and stands up straight when she opens the door and welcomes him in, her grip strong when they shake hands.

He shares an idea. She says to get to work on it immediately so she can include it in the press release for Christmas Eve and offers him a shortbread cookie. Her cat winds through Castiel’s legs and he tries not to get crumbs on the Persian rug beneath them, his heart rattling against his chest and a soft smile on his mouth.

✽✽✽

“Do you ever have days where you feel more queer than usual?”

Castiel wipes the back of a gloved hand on his forehead and peers up at Dean, who’s apparently feeling thoughtful today and perched on the edge of a small stone wall that serves as the backdrop for a donated sculpture. Dean got roped into last minute subbing for a fourth and fifth grade woodshop class, which is really just birdhouse making, and decided to drop by and see Cas and Charlie before leaving. Ever since their talk in the carriage, Dean has been hanging around the conservatory more often.

They’re busy putting the finishing touches on the “Orchid Christmas Spectacular,” Charlie bustling around with lights and Castiel elbow deep in soil – it’s two o’clock on Christmas Eve, their last moment of relative peace before the final Christmas rush. 

“Somebody say queer?” Charlie pipes up, head poking around the Tillandsia archway she’s trimming and draping purple Christmas lights around. “And speaking of, Dean, _please_ tell me-“

“Sorry, Gilda’s seeing some chick from Crape Myrtles,” Dean holds his hands up in apology.

“Damn it!” Charlie scowls and resumes plucking at the large tangle in the lights string. “I had an opener planned and everything.”

“Dirty Dancing?”

“Notting Hill.”

“Nice,” Dean nudges Cas with the tip of his boot and adds in a stage whisper, “It’s the elf ears.”

“It’s not _just_ the elf ears,” Charlie chides. “Those are merely a contributing factor.”

“She’s one of Santa’s elves?” Cas kneels back to peer around the banana tree at Charlie while Dean laughs, gleeful at the baleful look she sends him.

“What can I say,” Charlie says. “I have a type. Elven and swoon-worthy.”

“What’s your type, Cas?” Dean asks, very casually.

“Orchidaceae,” Castiel deadpans. “Though I have been known to dabble in conifers. And you?”

Dean shrugs. “’Fleeting’ and ‘random.’”

“Chiseled jawline,” Charlie coos, clutching her hands to her chest and posing dramatically against the archway. “Dreamy eyes! Big bookcase-!”

“Alright, alright,” Dean stands up flapping his hands, ears pink. “I’ll see you guys in Holly Jolly Hell.”

Castiel watches him go and wonders if his eyes qualify as dreamy.

✽✽✽

The Christmas rush comes and goes and they survive, but only just. 

It was so busy that Castiel didn’t get a chance to see Dean, though he’s sure Dean was too busy himself to make it to the conservatory tonight anyway.

Castiel didn’t snap at anyone tonight or have to take a quick breathing break in the supply closet. Anxiously, he realizes he had a nice time. The glass sculptures were almost knocked over a few times, some kids had to be shooed away from the tempting low hanging orchids, and, predictably, somebody fell in the fairy fountain, but instead of being resentful of it, Castiel was actually receptive to the atmosphere of cheer.

In his desperation to comfort the small boy who toppled into the fountain, he even sang Jingle Bells.

Charlie and Cas are both winded in the wake of the night as they pack up the lights and tidy the walkways but their chatter is light and happy. They part ways at the pavilion’s parking lot and Castiel smiles as he watches her stick her earphones in and dance to her car.

The lights around the gardens slowly shut off and the cars pull away one by one. It’s 11:35 when Castiel’s phone buzzes. He slides the screen to see a text from Hannah that says “TRAFFIC!!!!!!!!”

Castiel sighs and stuffs his phone back in his pocket, glowering at the sky, its stars hidden behind a thick layer of cloud, when wind howls by and ruffles his hair. It’s hard to be jolly when he is cold and coffeeless. 

There are a few employees left in the main building behind him, enough that he has no desire to go inside and mingle even though it’s much warmer there. 

Content to settle down on the curb and stew in his own misery until Hannah arrives, Castiel holds in an eye roll when a shadow falls over him, but when he looks up, it’s not a chatty coworker. Dean beams down at him like the sun, his cheeks rosy from the cold and, Castiel assumes, Christmas cheer.

“Casanova!” Dean crows, grinning down at him. “Why so glum?”

“I’ve never seen that movie,” Cas admits, but he smiles. 

Dean shrugs. “I mean, it’s a classic, but if we’re talking womanizers, I was always more of a Brando man myself.”

“His arms?”

Dean whistles long and low. “Glad we’re on the same page here. Sorry I didn’t make it out to you guys tonight, by the way. Any and all spare time went to calming Indy and Short Round down.”

“It’s okay,” Cas says. And it is. Maybe this is better. “Are you in a hurry to be home?”

“No,” Dean cocks an eyebrow. “The cashew stir fry can wait. Why?”

“Would you…” Castiel bites his lip, gathers his courage, and looks up at Dean. “Like to go to the conservatory before leaving?”

“Like a private tour?” Dean balks but quickly recovers. “I mean, I’ve never really looked around before. If that’s what you’re wanting to do. Sure. Yeah.”

Castiel stands, fighting his smile away as he heads off.

Dean follows.

✽✽✽

It’s snowing when they arrive at the conservatory. Castiel's keys jingle as he unlocks the front door – Charlie got him a small silver bell key ring to commemorate surviving the spectacular.

“It’s toasty in here,” Dean murmurs appreciatively. They’re only in the entry room, standing close next to a row of coat racks, the conservatory still sealed away behind a foggy set of glass doors, but the first set keeps out most of the winter chill.

Castiel unlocks the glass doors but turns to stop Dean from going through, swallowing roughly against the weight he suddenly feels in his throat.

He spent the last few days obsessing over what he would say but can’t seem to remember any of it now. Dean looks expectant and confused but waits patiently for Castiel to speak.

“Dean,” Castiel begins, his nerves making his voice shake. “You know I always appreciate our talks, and our time together.”

Dean smiles at him in a way Castiel hasn’t seen before. It’s gentle and true, soft and so sincere in its affection that Castiel has to look away.

“I’ve had a hard year,” Castiel says, his voice cracking halfway. Dean’s brow furrows with worry and he places a palm, warm and solid, on Cas’ shoulder. “For a long time, I was afraid I might…”

Castiel looks up at Dean, eyes swimming. Dean doesn’t look much better, his thumb rubbing encouraging circles on his shoulder.

“I’m getting better. I worked for that.” Castiel squints up at Dean, heart a steady drumbeat in his chest. “The conservatory helped. So did you.”

“Cas-“

“I wanted you to understand before I showed you.”

Dean still looks worried, so Castiel turns around and opens the doors.

Towering above them in greeting is a sixteen-foot Christmas tree comprised entirely of orchids and ferns.

It’s a pinwheel of colors bursting from leafy greens – much like its creator, the tree is structured but still unruly, at once pristine and unkempt. Unveiled for the spectacular, it had invoked awe from Talbot’s patrons all night and a photographer had even taken some photos for the local paper. Castiel put hours of work and overtime into designing and building it in the cramped back room, much to Charlie’s bewilderment and delight. 

Dean’s mouth is parted, his eyes wide as they roam, taking in every detail of the tree, of the work that was put into such a task, and, hopefully, of the sentiment in the gesture.

Castiel stands nervously beside him, eagerly watching his reaction. He feels proud but can’t help but worry that Dean won’t understand or like it. Surely, after all the time they have spent together over the past month, Dean must understand, he must _know_ -

In-between one breath and the next, Dean’s arms surround Castiel and pull him close against his chest, head nestled against his as they hug. Castiel can feel Dean’s smile on his skin. He is too shocked to respond at first, stiff in Dean’s embrace, but he melts, God, he melts, molds himself into Dean’s solid form and lets himself be held.

After a moment, Dean pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against Cas’, though he stays snug against him.

“You’re something else, you know that?” Dean whispers. His smile reaches his eyes, making them soften and their corners crinkle and fold. 

“I sang Jingle Bells tonight,” Castiel confesses.

Dean kisses him.

His hands slide up to cradle Castiel’s face, his touch so gentle and hesitant and unsure that Castiel groans and deepens their kiss, pulls Dean closer and runs his shaking hands all over him until they’re flushed and breathless.

Around them, snow falls and presses to the glass walls of the conservatory. 

Castiel’s phone buzzes and he begrudgingly pulls away from Dean’s mouth, his own wet and puffy. Dean mouths at his neck and burns trails up and down Cas’ back with his hands as he checks his phone – it’s Hannah, announcing she is finally here and to hurry because the snow storm is picking up and Castiel’s coffee is getting cold. He smiles.

“My sister’s here,” Castiel murmurs, nosing at Dean’s soft hair until he kisses his way across Cas’ jaw back to his mouth. “Dean, I need to—“ 

His breath hitches when Dean swallows his words and nips at his bottom lip and Castiel becomes thoroughly distracted with getting his hands under Dean’s lumpy burgundy sweater until he gets a second text from Hannah (“ !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! “).

“Stay,” Dean murmurs, thumbs rubbing gently on Castiel’s cheekbones as he presses a kiss to his temple, sweat beading there from the conservatory’s muggy warmth and their shared body heat. “I can drive you home.”

“But,” Castiel whispers in Dean’s ear, kissing the soft skin underneath it. “She has coffee.”

Dean chuckles and kisses Cas’ forehead, lingering there as Cas links his arms around his waist. “Maybe I can get you some coffee tomorrow.”

Castiel groans and kisses around Dean’s amusement. “I’d like that.”

They stay like that, entwined and happy under the orchids, until Castiel’s phone buzzes a third time. It’s 12:02 now – officially Christmas morning.

“Merry Christmas, Dean,” Castiel whispers, holding up his phone to show him the time with one hand and squeezing at Dean’s ass with the other. It’s a good ass.

Cas tells him so, and Dean blushes.

“Merry Christmas," Dean says, pausing before adding, “You filthy animal.” 

Dean laughs and kisses Cas just once more when he rolls his eyes before they reluctantly pull apart, though their hands remained clasped while they walk through the storm.

The snow is falling thick and fast and Castiel’s coffee is cold when he gets to the car, but he feels the warmth of Dean’s embrace the whole drive home.

**Author's Note:**

> Talbot Botanical Gardens and its festivities are based on Daniel Stowe Botanical Gardens in North Carolina.
> 
> Title taken from the Ólafur Arnalds song of the same name.
> 
> Merry Christmas!!


End file.
